The Bard of Blood

by Bilal Siddiqi

  The boy’s eyes welled up on hearing his uncle mention his late father and grandfather.

  ‘Don’t shed a tear, my boy. You are the grandson of the respected Tiger of Balochistan! You are destined to complete what your grandfather began. I am merely here to guide you.’

  The boy looked at the gun and felt the cool metal against his fingers. He had expected it to be lighter.

  ‘The target is ready.’ Nabil Bugti pointed to a goat’s head at the end of a long rod. ‘Take your time. But you will not leave until you shoot it.’

  Suddenly, there was the humming of an engine behind him. An SUV had pulled up near Nabil’s sedan. All of Bugti’s men collectively raised their rifles at the car. Nabil turned and looked quizzically through the dust that the car had kicked up. Irfan Baloch Khan stepped out of the car. Nabil looked up at his men, and gestured to them to lower their weapons.

  ‘Salaam, Nawab Bugti,’ Khan greeted him.

  Bugti nodded back in acknowledgement. ‘Salaam,’ he replied, looking into the car. ‘Are they here?’

  Khan nodded and turned around, looking at the four passengers in the car. He asked them to step out with a gesture of his hand. They got out.

  ‘These are the people I told you about,’ Khan said. Nabil scanned the three men and the solitary woman with a sharp look. Kabir walked up to him and stuck out his hand.

  ‘Kabir Anand,’ he said. ‘I believe we may have met fleetingly many years ago. But I’m sure you don’t recall.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. Anyway, I’ve heard of your plans from Nusrat Marri, Mr Anand.’

  ‘Call me Kabir. And before I get to that, I should let you know whom I’m working with. These are my comrades.’

  He introduced Veer, Nihar and Isha to him. Isha sensed condescension when Nabil shook her hand and smiled.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s far more capable than any of us,’ Veer said, sensing the patronizing look Nabil shot Isha. ‘You’d be surprised.’

  Nabil shrugged and leaned against the bonnet of the SUV. Behind him, the boy had started firing the pistol at the goat’s severed head. He missed, naturally.

  ‘So there is a slight glitch in your plan, Kabir. We know Omar stays in northern Quetta, but there are very few instances of him being spotted by even his own men. How do you propose we go about abducting him?’

  ‘We have a plan.’ Kabir smiled. ‘But before that, I’d like to know how thirsty you are to avenge the deaths of your father, your brother and so many of your Baloch brethren?’

  ‘I can’t put that into words.’ Nabil’s face reddened.

  ‘Then don’t,’ Veer spoke up. ‘Show it to us in your actions. If we work together this one time, we have a fairly good chance of pulling this off.’

  When turning someone into an asset, you have to get to know him. His frustrations, his aspirations, how he spends his time, how he spends his resources. You need to understand his dreams. You need to appeal to them. And that is what Kabir and his team were doing. They had managed to get Marri to agree, and now co-opting Nabil would be of game-changing import.

  The boy turned and looked at his uncle dejectedly. He had finished another round of bullets, but the goat’s head stayed where it was. Kabir walked up to the boy and said something into his ear. The boy looked at him, trembling with anger. Kabir reloaded the gun with another round and handed it over to him. The boy took a deep breath and lifted the gun up. His forearm was rock-steady. He breathed in deeply. He took his time to aim and then pulled the trigger.

  The goat’s head exploded as the bullet crashed through its cranium. Kabir smiled as he walked back to Nabil, who looked surprised, like everyone else.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Imagine the goat is your father’s murderer.’

  Beware the ides of March.

  It was the fifteenth day of March in 44 BC. Julius Caesar had been stabbed to death twenty-three times before his meeting at the Senate in Rome. His body lay in a bloody heap, on display for the bewildered crowd outside the Capitol. Two men spoke over his dead body. Brutus, Caesar’s trusted aide who stabbed him last, and Mark Antony, who remained faithful to his leader, despite their differences. Brutus was given a chance to explain his actions. He addressed the large crowd, who waited for him to speak. Now, Brutus was a noble man who respected Caesar, but who believed that once Caesar became a ruler he would assume dictatorial powers that would lead the country to its downfall. And he explained all of this to his countrymen, over Caesar’s lifeless form. This was the first scene that came to Kabir’s mind as he saw Nabil Bugti asking his people to gather around a large metal crate with a large lock on it.

  ‘This shameful metal crate is what Musharraf had sent us after killing my father, my beloved Balochis!’

  Nabil’s statement made everyone look at the rusty metal crate. This was the very crate that the Pakistani Army had sent to the Bugti family after killing Akbar Bugti and thirty-two of his men in a cave in Kohlu, Dera Bugti. It was an operation headed by none other than Brigadier Tanveer Shehzad of the ISI. A note was attached to the crate. It read: ‘The respected Nawab Akbar Bugti’s body lies in this metal coffin. Inshallah, he’ll find his way to heaven.’

  In Islam, dead bodies are buried in the ground, but not placed in a coffin. The Pakistanis responsible for killing Bugti had deprived his family of the centuries-old tradition of burying a dear departed in accordance with the teachings of Islam. Bugti’s mangled body was thrown into the crate on Shehzad’s orders. He had then had the coffin locked securely, with a victorious smile, and thrown away the key from the top of a nearby hill.

  ‘I’m sure all of you remember my respected father for his efforts,’ Nabil continued to his army. ‘And I’m sure seeing this crate frustrates you. God knows if it’s his body in it or not!’

  His Balochi fighters, leaning against their rifles, nodded sadly.

  ‘But my father was a brave man. I had asked him not to hide in those caves. And this is what he had told me: “Instead of a slow death in bed, I’d rather that death come to me while I’m fighting for our cause!” So my question to you is: If this is what my father wanted, did the Pakistanis succeed at all?’

  The fighters enthusiastically replied in the negative. Their gaze then shifted to the three men who stood beside Nabil Bugti. Isha was asked by Kabir to wait in the car.

  ‘These men here are Indians,’ said Nabil, pointing at Kabir and his team. ‘And even if they don’t follow our religion, they have shown that they stand to be more credible than the Pakistanis!’

  The Balochis looked at the Indians admiringly. Nabil looked at Kabir, and gestured to him to say a few words.

  ‘Friends,’ Kabir started, ‘this might sound unusual for you. But, yes, I’m an Indian who understands your plight fully.’

  He pictured this slightly differently. In his mind, he was Mark Antony talking to the Roman plebeians. And just like him, he was going to appeal to their hearts and not their heads, as Brutus did. And the crate that lay before him, regardless of the fact that it may not even have carried the real Akbar Bugti’s body in it, held, in his mind, the dead body of Julius Caesar.

  ‘What is Pakistan?’ Kabir asked. He proceeded to answer the question himself. ‘It’s not purely ethnic like Balochistan! Its people aren’t humane to the sufferings of you Balochis, like we Indians are! Granted, you may think I’m saying this because India and Pakistan are constantly at war and I may have vested interests. But then, you know as well as I do, that the guns you are holding and the houses that you are living in, inadequate as they are, were at some point bought by money that my country provided to the Balochi cause!’

  The Balochis shifted uneasily. They didn’t like being told they owed India a favour.

  ‘Balochistan is rich in minerals, gems, gas, petroleum and other such resources.’ Kabir raised his voice. ‘And these are enough to provide you a comfortable life. But do you like this uncertain life, this spectre of constant fear? Do you like taking the life of another h
uman being just so that you can live? I’m certain that you don’t. But if the need arises, you must. And that is why we are here today.’

  Kabir paused for breath and to see if the crowd was on the same wavelength as him. He quite enjoyed playing Mark Antony.

  ‘Enough with killing the odd soldier or two! Enough with wrecking small Pakistani properties that can be replaced in the blink of an eye! Enough of cutting the water supply and electricity! You, my friends, are going to hit them where it hurts. And I am going to guide you through it.’

  The Balochis shot confused glances at each other.

  ‘Nawab Nabil Bugti has agreed to be a part of my mission,’ Kabir said. ‘And if you agree with Nabil Bugti—and I’m sure, with Nawab Akbar Bugti as well, who is here with us in spirit—then you will be under my command for the next few days. We will, together, show the Pakistanis the real might of you Balochis! And this will maim them in a way that they’ve never experienced before!’

  Kabir paused dramatically.

  A voice cried out. ‘How can we trust you? What are your motives?’

  ‘What do I stand to gain out of it, you may think. Let me clear that up for you. I have four of my fellow Indians in their clutches. And I am here to free them. Would you not do the same for your men? Together, you and the Marri tribe will fight the toughest fight you’ve ever fought to get what you want . . . Revenge!’

  The fighters seemed to stir up.

  Nabil Bugti stepped beside Kabir and opened his mouth to speak. ‘I agree with this man’s words,’ he said. ‘And you must understand that this mission could play a very important role in our revolution if we execute it according to the plan. What the mission is, I will tell you only if you all are willing participants! So tell me now, my friends, will you do this for your leader, who lay down his life for you? For your wives and sisters whose modesty was outraged, who were humiliated by the Pakistanis? For your integrity, and for the honour of Balochistan?’

  The Balochis stood up, roaring their support for the Indian man who stood next to their leader. They lifted their rifles and began firing in the air to show their appreciation. Isha, hearing the gunshots and fearing something unforeseen had happened, got out of the car and walked a few steps. She was greeted with the sight of the Balochis firing in the air and hugging each other.

  Later that night, at Nabil Bugti’s residence, Kabir and his team, along with Irfan Baloch Khan, sat over a lush Persian dastarkhwan, a feast, and discussed the full plan of action, over dishes of beef nihari, yakhni pulao and eggplant on lavash.

  ‘One last thing,’ Kabir said to Bugti, steely-eyed, ‘I want you to find me a metal coffin like this one.’

  Everyone looked at him, uncertain of the direction he was headed. But by now they were familiar with Kabir Anand’s way of doling out his message.

  ‘I will bring Tanveer Shehzad to you in that coffin. And then you can do to him what he did to your father.’

  PART II

  The Twelfth Night

  15

  12 September 2014

  Islamabad, Pakistan

  The Director General of the ISI, Lieutenant General Azhar-ul-Islam Tayyab, was seated upright at the desk in his study. It was three in the morning. He recalled everything Brigadier Tanveer Shehzad had relayed to him. It played in his mind on a loop. It would spell disaster for India, he thought as he worked on his proposal for the Army chief. His job was going to get a whole lot more difficult after the plan was executed. But he was ready to take it on. It had to be done.

  His chain of thought was broken by the faint buzz of his phone. He had kept the phone on silent, lest his wife, in the adjacent room, wake up. To most, that buzz wouldn’t even be audible, but for him it was the loudest sound at the time. He opened his drawer cautiously, picked up the phone and squinted at the number as it gently vibrated in his hand. He stood up with some urgency and walked over to the window before answering it.

  ‘It’s three in the morning,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘This better be worth it!’

  ‘I haven’t called to discuss the weather, janaab! I have something important to tell you.’

  Tayyab lit his seventh cigarette of the night. ‘Well, go on, then.’

  ‘The Wing is up to something, and it doesn’t look good.’

  Tayyab felt a sudden shot of fear rush through his veins. Could RAW know about the planned attack? Could they know about al-Qaeda?

  ‘What do you mean by “something” for God’s sake?!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the reply came. ‘I’m sure there’s something about to happen in Balochistan. I thought I’d give you a heads-up. Do what you can, ASAP.’

  ‘Are you a hundred per cent certain?’

  ‘Of course I am!’ the man on the other end of the line spluttered. ‘I popped Sadiq for you, I got those Indians captured for you. The least you owe me is a bit of trust, janaab.’

  ‘I trust nobody,’ Tayyab replied. ‘But if what you say is true, then you know I owe you the price you name.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll get to that later. I’m leaving the country. Will contact you once I’m out of here. Will need help. Goodnight.’

  Tayyab leaned against the table and picked up his glass thoughtfully. What could they possibly know? The plan of the attack is too high-level a secret for them to get wind of. Maybe it could be something related to the prisoners. Could they be coming to get them? Of course not. They’ve got no backbone. Even if they do, they’ll never make it out alive. But one can never be too sure.

  Tayyab lifted his phone and dialled a number quickly. Precautions had to be taken. If things were about to happen in Balochistan, Shehzad needed to know.

  ‘Salaam aleikum,’ Shehzad said instantly. ‘Is everything okay, janaab?’

  Even in the wee hours of the morning, Tanveer Shehzad sounded alert as ever.

  ‘Are you still with him?’

  Tayyab was referring to Ayman al-Zawahiri, the successor to Osama bin Laden, who had meticulously engineered a plan, in cahoots with the ISI, to set India on fire, and to sit back and watch it burn.

  ‘Yes,’ Shehzad replied. ‘Fleshing out the details of the celebrations.’

  ‘I need you to get back to Quetta. Take the chopper and get Omar and Baradar out of there. That’s top priority. After that, move the Indians out, too, if you can. If they die, so be it.’

  Shehzad remained silent for a while. The sudden developments confused him.

  ‘Where do I take them?’

  ‘Back to Swat,’ Tayyab replied. ‘Keep them in one of the Haqqani safe houses.’

  ‘May I ask why, janaab?’

  ‘The Indians are up to something in Balochistan,’ Tayyab said urgently. ‘I want to play it safe, in case this is something serious.’

  ‘All right. By tomorrow evening, I’ll fly them back to Waziristan.’

  ‘Go, get some rest,’ Tayyab ordered. ‘You have a long day ahead.’

  Tayyab poured himself a glass of water, looked at the time and shook his head. He was tired, but there was no way he was going to be able to sleep. Not now, in any case. He walked back to his table and continued to type away, robotically, on his laptop.

  12 September 2014

  Quetta, Balochistan

  It was noon, and the children were ready to offer their zohr namaz, before they resumed their studies at the Fayyaz-ul-Uloom madrasa. They lined up next to each other, chatting animatedly while they went about the process of wudu, a ritual ablution performed before each prayer session. Their headmaster, a stout man dressed in a white kurta-pyjama that fell just short of his ankles, waited for them to assemble in the prayer hall. He sported a neatly trimmed beard, but no moustache. Beads of sweat formed along his hairline as he adjusted the microphone at his collar. He checked it lightly by tapping on it. He needed the speaker to be loud enough, to lead the children through the namaz. It also needed to be audible to the Amir and Mullah Baradar in the chamber below.

  The prayers started soon enough. The headmaster’s
baritone boomed through the speakers. A few hundred students genuflected, pressing their foreheads to the woven-straw prayer mat. In the chamber below, Mullah Omar and Mullah Baradar performed their prayers on their strongly incensed velvet ja’namaz. The adjacent chamber, however, had four semi-conscious men, gagged and tied up, hoping to be put out of their misery soon. But in their minds, they prayed to their god for a miracle. They wanted the bright light that shone directly on their faces to be switched off. They wanted that excruciatingly painful buzzing noise to stop. They couldn’t take it any longer. They wished they had been executed instead. And then, all of a sudden, the light and the sound went off. Maybe their prayers had been heard?

  One storey above, in the prayer hall, the speaker had abruptly gone silent, too. The children and the headmaster remained on their haunches, completing the namaz anyway. There is a strict rule in Islam that forbids distraction during prayer, no matter how extreme the circumstances. After wrapping up, the headmaster hurried to check on the speaker that had gone dead, kaput, halfway through his prayers.

  ‘No electricity,’ the peon said. ‘The entire area is suffering from a power failure.’

  ‘Use the generator, then,’ the headmaster barked.

  ‘The last time there was a power cut, our generator stopped working as well, due to a short circuit.’

  The headmaster cursed under his breath and marched towards the chamber downstairs. He would need to inform the Amir and Mullah Baradar. He knocked at their door lightly. Baradar opened it.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve lost electricity in the entire area,’ the headmaster told a sweaty Baradar. The chamber was dark and stuffy. There were no windows in their subterranean hideout.

  ‘Fucking Balochis.’ The Amir’s voice came from behind. ‘It must be them again.’

  He was accurate in his assessment. The Balochis often cut off the power to annoy the Pakistanis.

  ‘Get a trusted electrician,’ Baradar instructed the headmaster. ‘Until then, send all the students back home. We will sit upstairs.’